


Mind and Body

by valammar



Series: Sing With Me [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Chubby Inquisitor, Domestic, F/M, Fluff, Plus Size Inquisitor, Post-Canon, Post-Trespasser, Smut, plus sized inquisitor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-07-15 19:53:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7236232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valammar/pseuds/valammar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Trespasser. Post-honeymoon phase. A few vignettes of Neb and Cullen's life together over the years in South Reach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mind and Body

**Author's Note:**

> Your eyes, they did flutter again  
> And my mouth, it did hang wide  
> When you told me every little thing's gonna be alright  
> But we were younger then and now we're not  
> And if there was a plan made, then we forgot about it
> 
> Echos, "All I Want"

Thirty-two. The house stood on an open field of grass and wildflowers and had the luxury of an existing stone well within a cool, shady grove.

“What do you think?”

“It’s perfect, Cullen! There’s plenty of space to build a clinic and your family is only eight miles west from here.”

“Good. Because it’s ours.”

“You mean…?”

The purchase agreement crinkled while he unfolded it from his pocket. “The deed, my lady.”

She smirked in that way she did when he teased her and took the parchment from him. “Our first home. Maker, I never thought I’d have something like this.”

“It also comes with a dual oven in the kitchen, though…I’m not sure how much use it would get.”

A look of realization spread across Neb’s face. Her quiet meant she was thinking, and he knew exactly what about. “Cullen, between my family, the Circle and Skyhold, all my meals were catered—all of _your_ meals were catered! We don’t—“

“Neither of us knows how to cook. I realize that now.” He cocked his head and crossed his arms. Even after the events at the Winter Palace, they’d spent their travels dining on premade rations and taking their dinners at local taverns on their way to South Reach. “This _could_ be an opportunity for us to learn, I suppose.”

“Yes, I suppose it _could_ …”

They stood side-by-side in respective silence and listened to the symphony of crickets escalate underneath the setting sun. Finally, Neb spoke.

“Hire a cook?”

“…Hire a cook.”

 

* * *

 

Thirty-four. Cullen opened his eyes to the pale pink of dawn streaming through the window while the chitter of birdcalls filtered in. Their humble home smelled sweet and earthy thanks to the herbs Neb dried above the basin in the kitchen. He inhaled deeply, reinvigorating his well-rested senses. Griffon stirred at the foot of the bed, his claws gently scratching the floorboards as he pursued a nug in his dreams. Amidst the haze of sleep, Cullen felt that brief sense of urgency that often plagued his mornings. How much time will he have to screen the dozens of international reports that awaited him? Would there be enough time to sort them by a matter of urgency to manage time better, or would he have to bunker down and tackle as many as he could before the afternoon reports trickled their way onto his desk?

… _What desk?_ As the tangy aroma of arbor blessing wafted around him, he slowly came to. He was a general no longer. Instead of a sword, he wielded an ax for chopping firewood. He’d gone from leading an army to leading stray travelers toward his wife’s apothecary studio.

His wife. The famed Herald of Andraste and Inquisitor, now retired—if he could call it retirement. Cullen turned his head to watch her sleep next to him, to hear her careful rhythmic breathing, to watch the gentle fluttering of her eyelashes.

She spent most of her time tending to the wounded and infirm and Maker, she thrived. Villagers in southern Ferelden came from miles away to meet the infamous mage and partake in her expert care. She’d trade salves that treat rheumatism for potatoes; concoct tinctures that cured chronic cough, stomach pain, headaches and fever in exchange for dried beans or grains; mend broken bones at the cost of a smile and a prayer. If she’d opened up a clinic in Val Royeaux she could have been compensated in wild riches, but he knew her better than that. She believed the Maker bestowed her with her gifts for a purpose. It was never about the money. Besides, saving the world _did_ include some long-term fringe benefits if her closet full of free silks on behalf of the royal court was any indication. The two of them managed.

 _Healer_. Neb still carried a title with her wherever she went. “Good morning, healer,” townsfolk would greet her when she perused the market stands. Then they would turn to him with a curt nod and simply say, “Aye.” He was completely ordinary. No career. No deadlines. No combat. No chaos. No order. It had been two years since the Inquisition disbanded, but Cullen’s heart thrust against his sternum whenever he was struck with the realization that he had nowhere to _be_.

Today marked the start of his thirty-fourth year. What was he to do with his life now?

“Good morning,” she sighed happily.

“Sleep well?”

“Mm,” she hummed. He assumed it meant a yes. Neb never could shake her early morning grogginess. “Happy Nameday.”

“…Thank you,” he said.

“Is something wrong?”

He huffed. “Sometimes it’s too quiet. I’m accustomed to preempting danger and strategizing a plan of attack. Now, my greatest obstacle is how many satchels of your herbs I can carry into town, and every day feels dull by comparison.”

“Consider it your reward, Cullen,” she said, scooting closer to him. “You’ve earned a little boredom.”

“A _little_ I can handle, but not indefinitely. Someday or another, I’ll need a new lot in life or my mind will rot.”

“You’ll find it. I know you will.” She breathed a small, tired giggle and rose up on her strong legs to sit astride him. “In the meantime, I can think of plenty of ways to keep you busy.”

“Oh?” he teased, quirking an eyebrow at her. Cullen was more than happy to let her kiss him into submission. When she lowered her body down his, the hot wetness of her tongue at the cut of his hip lulled his anxiety for the time being.

 

* * *

 

“And this is a C chord,” Neb pointed out the combination of red marked strings.

Thirty-five. Cullen was lucky enough to be born with a musical ear—it was one of the things she loved about him. She’d hoped that with enough practice he’d learn enough to accompany her on the harp. Her hand ached to play.

Or maybe it ached from overuse. Ever since she’d lost a limb, she’d found herself contorting her arm in new ways in her clinic, bearing more weight, undergoing more and more exertion until muscle spasms hindered her from working.

“If you can pluck this combination in rhythm, I think I can manage the melody single-handed.” It was a lie, she knew it. All of her efforts were fruitless, but damned if she wasn’t going to try it anyway.

“All right,” he said with a look of pure dedication. She beamed. He was still so eager to please.

 

* * *

 

Thirty-seven. “This Void-ridden wrist!” Neb groaned. Years of pulverizing dried herbs in her mortar and pestle had made her arm stiffen and joints crackle. She relied on her husband to massage her homemade remedy into the muscle for pain relief, but he still hadn’t returned from town. Now that they had steady business, she realized that she could probably consider hiring an apprentice to peddle her tonics in the market square.

No sooner did she think about him that he burst through the frosted door. “Maker’s breath, you can catch your death out there!”

“Welcome back,” she said, keeping her voice low to not rouse her overnight patients from their cots.

“I come with supplies,” he opened a linen sack and poured its contents over their meal table. “Bars of melting chocolate, three bushels of spindleweed, amethyst dust, tapered candles and a new set of glass vials.”

“You forgot the six bushels of peppermint I need for my migraine balm.”

“Yes, well…” he coughed. “They seemed to be out.”

“They _seemed_? Did you ask someone?” Neb knew that there was always a risk in sending Cullen out to make negotiations. He could be damned near intimidating in a suit of armor, but leery, flighty and anxious in everyday social situations.

“…No.” He rubbed the back of his neck.

She sighed, feeling sore and exhausted. It meant she’d be behind on her schedule, but couldn’t entirely fault the man. Everyone had hang-ups, and his was starting a conversation. If only she could make a remedy for _that_.

 

* * *

 

Forty.

“I can’t believe he’s really gone,” Cullen murmured, cradling Griffon’s urn of ashes in his arms like he would an infant.

“He was a good dog.” Neb placed her hand on her husband’s shoulder. It was rare to see him so solemn, but in grief he looked pale and haggard. His cheeks had sunken with age and his hairline had begun to recede, drawing more attention to the crease in his forehead that contracted when he choked a sob.

 

* * *

 

“I think they’re adorable on you!” Neb exclaimed.

Forty-two. Cullen outright refused those dwarven inventions that enhanced one’s vision until he could no longer read the day’s letters.

“Maker’s breath, I look ridiculous!” The wooden spectacles pinched at his nose and the reflection staring back at him appeared twice as panicked as he felt.

“But now you can at least _see_ how ridiculous you look, right?”

He groaned.

 

* * *

 

Forty-five. An uncharacteristically hot summer made their bodies slip against each other’s vigorously, but Neb was grateful for the added moisture. She was on her knees with Cullen pounding into her from behind in hard, _loud_ pumps. Her wavy tresses stuck to her cheeks, mouth and eyelids in sweat-soaked tendrils. She reached behind her to grab at his own, remembering how luxuriously thick it used to be. It grew in thinner and finer now, and he kept his curls cropped shorter to his slender face. There wasn’t as much she could grasp onto.

Twelve years ago, he would have had her gasping and writhing at only the slightest touch, but with age came a decline in sensitivity and their lovemaking grew more desperate, more aggressive out of necessity. His strong arm gripped the soft expanse of her stomach tightly to hold her slick back against his chest and spare her the discomfort of balancing on one arm.

His every movement shook her, his every thrust was punctuated by his dark groans and hot pants in her ear. She couldn’t recall the last time they’d fucked like this. Satinalia of last year?

Why didn’t they do this more often, again?

 

* * *

 

“And then what did she do?” The child’s amber eyes were wide and focused solely on Cullen.

“The dragon had her cornered, its wingspan blacked out the sun. It all seemed hopeless until she heard a quiet, gentle sloshing underneath its claws.”

Forty-nine. Neb had finished closing up her clinic for the night and relished the cool outside air. Maker, how her back ached from hunching over all day. She spotted her husband’s nieces and nephews circled around the fire, each petting one of the stray dogs Cullen had taken in. She recognized his tale—it was the day she took on a Fereldan Frostback during an early excursion for the Inquisition.

“What was it?”

“A puddle, stupid!”

“Tell us what happened next!” The children all shouted excitedly.

“Calm down!” he waited until he had their full, undivided attention before continuing. “Now, there are dragons who are resistant to electricity, but not this one, and Neb knew that. So she…so she…”

He looked at his feet, stuttering. This had become more of a regular occurrence. Instead of being too nervous to ask for supplies, he’d forget them entirely. His sentences went unfinished. They both chalked it up to a part of growing older at first, but deep down they both knew the reason.

No non-mage could escape the long-term effects of lyrium use, even one who had been clean for as long as he was. He once warned her that memory loss could still affect him as he aged.

“She…um…” he rubbed the back of his neck, flustered.

“So she summoned the strongest electrical current she could muster,” Neb continued, emerging from the shadows. “And concentrated all of it onto that dragon’s big, sharp claws.” The children squealed as she made a poor attempt at a roar and grabbed the smallest one to tickle her.

Neb looked at Cullen. He remained silent, but the subtext was clear: _thank you_.

 

* * *

 

_To the Lady Nebula Lucille Emmaline Trevelyan,_

_It is with a heavy heart that we inform you…_

Fifty-two. Neb sat in her sunlit study going over the morning’s letters. She recognized a wax seal stamped with her family’s crest and scanned the heavily looped writing within.

She must have made a face, because Cullen approached her side. “Is something wrong?”

“My mother,” she said. “Died in her sleep, apparently.”

He knew how complicated of a relationship she had with her family. Before the events at the Conclave, they’d abandoned her at the Circle barely so much as a single visit, and before her magic emerged at age six, she and her mother were inseparable. Good little Nebula, always polite and wearing a smile. But the Trevelyans were a devout few, and to have a mage in the family was considered blatant heresy. Just like that, Neb became their youngest, dirtiest secret. The only time they reached out was when she’d been proclaimed the Herald, and even Cullen—social savant he wasn’t—could see through their poor attempt to glean some of their daughter’s fame.

“Is there a date set for the funeral?”

“Two weeks from now.”

“Were you invited?”

She tensed all the way down to her feet, which were tucked into some thick, mismatched socks Sera knitted. “I was.”

“Neb, you don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

Her body went still; her face, conflicted. All he could do was kiss her greying hair as a show of support.

 

* * *

 

“Where do you think you’re going with that?” Neb demanded.

She’d wondered what Cullen had been doing in the barn that morning, but if she’d known he’d been sharpening his sword and polishing his shield she might have been able to address this sooner.

“There’s been reports of a lone wyvern stalking a village in the area. A few of the townsfolk and I are off to hunt it down.”

“You’re fifty-six summers old! You’ll do no such thing!”

“And what else am I to do, hm? Should the former _Commander of the Inquisition_ take a seat while inexperienced villagers battle this creature by themselves?”

“Cullen, can you even remember which village it is?”

He set his jaw like he always did when he was annoyed. “Of course. It’s…it’s…” His eyes scanned all compass points, darting back and forth in a desperate attempt to recall anything—even the tiniest mnemonic.

“Cullen?”

“…I cannot just stand here when I could be doing something useful for once.”

Neb believed in compassion, exalted kindness above all things. Her Maker was a loving god who hated combat, despised killing. She’d hoped to never pick up her staff again, but it didn’t take a staff for her to summon a protective barrier…

“Hey,” she reassured. “We’ll hunt it together, all right?”

 

* * *

 

Sixty.

“Why don’t you use that gift from Orzammar?” Cullen asked her while he watched her struggle to keep her pestle steady. That bronzed contraption strapped across her chest and imitated her missing arm. She could arrange its metal digits to hold the bowl in place while she powdered elfroot, but it was so damned heavy that her poor back could barely take the strain of it.

“I just prefer to do it this way,” she replied.

 

* * *

 

Sixty-two.

She slept on his left in their feather bed so he could still tangle his fingers with hers. It was a mild winter, which made their small bedroom comfortably cool for the evening.

“What do you think will happen to us? As we get older?” she asked.

“Well, my mind is already trying to flee early. Who can say?”

“My mind is still sharper than rashvine nettle. It’s my body that’s giving out.”

“Well then,” he spoke, low and husky. “I suppose it’s a blessing we have each other.” He rolled over to place a peck on her cheek. After all these years, her skin was still dewy and soft.

“That's true. I’ll help your mind fill in the blanks.”

“And I’ll always be there to do the heavy lifting.”


End file.
